


I Know Your Worth

by innusiq



Series: Pre-Serum Problems [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6243616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innusiq/pseuds/innusiq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>01/02/1941:  Today, Steve had to wait in a very long line in order to simply buy groceries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Your Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of a series of ficlets inspired by [todays-skinny-steve](http://todays-skinny-steve.tumblr.com) tumblr page that chronicles Pre-Serum Steve's day to day life beginning 01/01/1941. I continue to thank this tumblr user immensely for allowing me to use their posts as inspiration!

It’s Steve’s first day back at work, not just post holiday but after being off sick a week since Christmas, and while he’s been chomping at the bit to escape the confines of the dingy four walls of their shabby and drafty, one room apartment, in the same breath he can’t wait to climb the three flights of stairs leading back there to call the day to a close. Generally, Steve would gladly take any and all hours the owner is willing to schedule him, but Steve also isn’t too proud to admit being marginally thankful today that he’s rarely scheduled more than five hours on any given day. Today’s schedule is only four hours of stocking shelves and occasionally helping up front with bagging groceries when the queues start filling up midafternoon, and yet barely an hour into his shift Steve needs a break because he gets winded carrying a crate of canned soup to aisle four, and another unplanned breather when his left leg goes numb and he loses his balance, nearly taking out aisle two’s display of the daily special (some sort of canned meat he doesn’t understand or even thinks wise to try). Steve doesn’t miss the glare aimed his way from the storeowner as he limps his way to the back of the store to retreat out into the back alley, nor the whispers as he returns to the job at hand, carrying another heavy load for shelving with his head held high and dragging his leg a bit because he’ll be damned if he clocks out early on principal alone. 

Steve isn’t stupid, or naïve. He knows the opinions held amongst his employer and fellow co-workers. He sees the pity barely concealed when he’s asked how he’s doing. He hears the long-suffering burden when he needs to excuse himself (again) from a shift because it sounds like his body is attempting to cough up a lunge. He _knows_ , and yet no matter how much he hates it all, it’s a job nonetheless and he needs the money, not only to help out with rent and food, but medicines too that no matter how many hours he puts in he can’t ever really afford on his own. This job is a means to an end (or at least a means to making ends meet with the help of Bucky), and for as much as he knows there is no loyalty here from his employer, Steve feels he owes no loyalty back all the same. Thus when Steve picks up his pay from a week ago (a week’s worth of pay that’s a measly five bills and some change), it isn’t this employer’s establishment he shops at to pick up the essentials they need back at the apartment, but the _competition_ ten blocks away (three blocks back towards their place and another seven blocks in the opposite direction), stubbornly limping the entire way in an effect to alleviate the pressure-pain on his hip (which never really goes away no matter what he does).

The competition in question is a small mom and pop joint, the entire staff a family member in one way, shape or form, and every time Steve walks in he’s greeted with a friendly smile and his name.

“Afternoon, Steven,” Mrs. Kenneally greets, a plump, older woman, maybe in her sixties, with gray hair pulled up into a bun and a motherly smile that can brighten anyone’s dreary day.

“Afternoon, Ma’am,” Steve returns with a smile and a nod, and picks up a basket by the door. “Just picking up a few things.”

He makes quick work of the task at hand, they don’t need too much between the two of them, but what they do need tends to eat away at what little they do have. He keeps the list simple: sugar, bread, a chuck roast (they can make a soup that will last the week through or more if they’re lucky), butter, carrots and potatoes. The store basket is laden down and feels almost half his weight, Steve knowing better that it isn’t, but the day’s felt longer than expected and while his body is on the cusp of giving up and calling it quits, there’s still a seven block walk back to the apartment before he can even think of letting himself give up.

The line is longer than normal when he gets to the only clerk queue (another reason he patronizes this place over his employer is his general need to always help out the _little guy_ ), and he needs to place his basket on the shop floor while he waits in line due to his fingers starting to tingle in their grip around the handles, not to mention the pinch in his back (right were it curves unnaturally) that he can normally ignore (only due to its constant, daily reminder of one of the many ailments he suffers which has caused a built up tolerance to such pain) but today, after so many days of bed rest and the strain of his first day back, he finds his body revolting against his stubborn constitution.

It’s nearly twenty minutes later when he’s finally picking up his bagged goods, adjusting them against his good hip (that really isn’t _good_ just _better_ ) and he’s waving his goodbyes.

“See you next week Steven,” Mrs. Kenneally beams, waving too before returning her attention back to the customer in front of her.

Steve steps outside and takes a moment to breathe in (the air is cold but not too bitter or dry for early January) before turning to head back down the street towards the apartment. It’s slow going for sure, especially having to dodge his way through and around the many Brooklyn inhabitants who pay no mind to Steve and his more than obvious plight, if his wheezing doesn’t give away his struggles, his uneven gait surely should, but no one has time to heed any worry towards a no-name, little guy like him and that is something Steve is far too used to at his age. He stops every other block to rest his bag of groceries on the ground and stretch out a bit, before picking it back up, leveling his burden and carrying on. He’s a block out from the apartment, his final brief stop to catch his breath ending up being more than just a little brief stop, before someone finally takes notice of the little guy.

“Hey Pal, need a hand,” a familiar voice calls out, and when Steve looks up he catches Bucky flicking the butt of a cigarette into the street, a crooked smile lighting up his otherwise grimy and work weary face.

“No,” Steve huffs out, feeling embarrassed at being caught out in such a weakened state and refusing the help he stubbornly knows he needs but doesn’t want to ask for (doesn’t want to need). “I’m a grown man. I’m perfectly capable carrying a bag of groceries.”

Bucky snorts out an amused yet annoyed sound, shaking his head in clear dismay. “You’re a goddamn stubborn punk, you know that?”

“So you say, just about every day,” Steve accuses, holding his head high, refusing to give in.

“Yeah, and it doesn’t ever sink into that thick skull of yours,” Bucky returns, shaking his head again. “Fine, I’ll meet you back at our place.”

And simple as that, Bucky passes by and continues on his own (and what looks _merry_ ) way toward their apartment, leaving Steve to lean against the brick of a building still a block out from home, his friend not even attempting to snatch up the groceries they both well know will be a struggle for Steve to carry not just finishing the block out but to also climb the three flights of stairs to their floor. It’s frustration alone that finally breaks Steve as Bucky nears the corner.

“Bucky!”

His cheeks feel warm as he quickly looks down at his feet, shoes a scuffed up mess because he’s owned them far longer than he’s been an adult (and still doesn’t fully fill them), but he knows they will need replaced sooner rather than later because they no longer keep out the cold and wet of the snow and rain. He doesn’t want to think about the hours of work it will take to afford a new pair or what other expense may arise unexpectedly that will push off their purchase because new shoes get pushed down to being an unnecessary _luxury_ over medical expenses.

“Hey,” Bucky says, bumping Steve’s shoulder with his arm to get Steve’s attention. “Come on, you just got better, no use courting another cold.”

Bucky picks up the bag at Steve’s feet and they fall into step with each other, Bucky slowing his pace to match Steve’s so he doesn’t fall behind.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“There ain’t no reason I need thanking, and you ain’t got nothing to prove to me neither,” Bucky responds. “I know your worth, Stevie and there ain’t anyone better than you around. So don’t you go thinking any different, got it?”

Steve looks up at Bucky, his best friend, probably the only reason he’s survived as long as he has in this world (aside from his mother, God rest her soul) and reluctantly nods, accepting Bucky’s words for what they are but still not one hundred percent believing them all the same.

“You’re judgment’s a bit skewed,” Steve says as they approach the steps of their building. “I know of at least one person better than me around here.”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky counters in a challenging voice, holding the door open for Steve as they pass through into the building proper. “And who’s that?”

After they’re inside, Steve stops at the opening of the stairwell, first to take a deep breath in preparation for their ascent up, and second to turn and look up at Bucky with a small smile to reply, “You.”


End file.
